


Like Sif

by orphan_account



Category: The Forbidden Game - L. J. Smith
Genre: Everything's the same in the universe except for the thing at the end, F/M, Literally nothing changes in their universe, PTSD-esque symptoms, Therapy Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 02:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She couldn’t let herself forget Summer’s death, but she wished that she could forget that touch, forget how much she leaned into it like he was her boyfriend and not Tom.





	Like Sif

_Honey, liquid amber, and eventually, gold: Arguably the most beautiful woman in Norse Mythology, Thor’s wife, the agricultural goddess Sif ,owned the brightest hair in all the nine worlds. It became the envy of many, but to Thor and Sif, her long, blonde locks were their pride and joy. In a myth featuring Loki, Sif’s beautiful hair is cut off as a prank, one which suffers severe backlashes. Threatened by both Thor and Odin, the king of Asgard and every deity within it, Loki is forced to pay for his mischief and tricks dwarves skilled in metalwork to craft a replacement: strands of gold as thin as hair, enough to cover a whole head. What was once compared to gold became it, and Sif was viewed as beautiful again._

* * *

Jenny took a shower sometime after her parents picked her up from the police station and dropped her off home before leaving for church. Neither her mother nor father said anything, letting their strained smiles and quick glances to the backseat say the pity they meant to give. While Joey scrambled to ask insensitive questions only a kid can ask, each ranging in oddity from, “Is Summer really dead?” to, “If Summer’s in Norse hell, does this mean we can’t be Christians anymore?” (and after their parents shot back an affirmative, “No!”), Jenny caught bits and pieces of their hushed conversation. The radio played Michael Jackson, and soon “Billy Jean” crowded the rest of the thick silence within the car. His smooth lyrics and fluttering pop chords failed to mask their whispered exchanges, however. 

“Jess, please understand that Jenny’s gone through something traumatic,” she heard her father plead, “You heard the police. All of the kids regressed and tried to rationalize the situation the best they could.” As if being tricked into playing a demonic game built by each players’ nightmares and directed by an entity of pure darkness and evil who happened to fall in love with a—at the time—five-year-old blonde could be considered rational. If it hadn’t happened to her, Jenny might’ve cracked a sad smile at silly idea like that, but her face felt heavy.

One of the medics at the police station diagnosed the teenagers with a mild case of shock, but Jenny gave her orange shock blanket to Michael since the poor boy couldn’t stop shaking throughout his retelling of the night’s events. Her parents still believed her to be in shock, and so Jenny played along, ducking her head down to rest against the backside of the passenger seat. Wisps of blonde hair shielded her face from her parents’ view, but she could feel the grimace her mother wore. Jenny couldn’t help the grimy crawl of guilt edging up her throat, aching her muscles beyond the dull throb from every time she nearly cried over the last twenty-four, every time the questioner dismissed her story to be bullshit.

It didn’t help that it was her decision to buy a game in the bad part of town that lead to her parent’s trip being cut abruptly short. It was her decision that had cut Summer’s life abruptly short.

Jenny’s mother said, “I do understand, and that’s why I want to call Dr. Carmichael. He helped last time—“

“He specializes in children. And we don’t have time to find another therapist.”

“Time? This is our daughter we’re talking about.” Leaning her head against the back of her mother’s seat increased the tightness wrapping itself throughout the inside of her throat, and Jenny whipped up to an upright position to look out the car window instead. A rush of air filled her head and the trees zipping by didn’t help her feel any less sick.

Jenny’s dad cut her off. “Yes. This _is_ our daughter. And she’s strong.” Jenny flinched at the passing memory of Julian’s lips against her own and how her desire to pull away dwindled the longer his lean torso lay flush against hers. “And a therapist may aggravate the situation further. I think it’s best to give her time to grieve.”

Jenny remembered Dr. Carmichael, and after the night’s events, she remembered why she had seen him in the first place. He had helped her forget, but now Jenny wanted to remember. Summer was dead, and it was all her fault; she should at least bear the memory as a repentant burden.

Her mother sighed, which was a dry sound, more out of frustration than true resignation.

In contrast, her father’s voice carried a calm tone to it. “Let this be natural. We shouldn’t force her to process this any faster than it needs to be processed.” 

Summer never had the chance to process her nightmare collapsing into an infested inferno before she died. Julian didn’t have time to process Jenny’s quick actions when she pushed and effectively locked him inside of the closest, parallel to her grandfather’s trap over a decade ago. Jenny didn’t want to process the weekend she’s experienced, but she didn’t want to leave it behind either. Processing was a luxury and Jenny didn’t want to cough over its price if it meant she’d feel better about the sins she committed. What she’d allowed to happen was her fault. Jenny bit the insides of her cheeks to keep composed, cursing herself for letting her desire to maintain a specific image cloud her judgement and lead her into the More Games store.

Her head hit the window with a soft _thud_ , and the cold morning air seeped through the glass and through her hair. Palm tree followed palm tree, each one erect to the side of the road, their wide leaves outstretched to accommodate travelers hoping to escape the California sun. It was only a few hours after sunrise, and their trademarked weather had yet to shoo away the rest of the unexpected, lingering chill. Jenny wondered if it had all been a ploy, a trick crafted by Julian to ensure that’d she want to buy a game for Tom’s birthday instead of pulling through with the original plan, the pool party.

Despite the cold, Jenny’s bright windbreaker remained unzipped, but she did pull the flaps closer together against her chest, crossing her arms. 

She didn’t remember tuning out of the conversation and arriving home, nor did she remember stepping into the shower, yet here she was.

Jenny found herself standing under a stream of lukewarm water. The white bath tiles were clean as her mother would never allow grime to build up on them no matter how busy each family member claimed to be. Everything within the three-square-foot space sat in its own perfect spot. Shampoos and conditioners on the top, body wash on the second, face cleansers on the bottom. Washcloths slept in perfect folded positions in the top-right drawer for when anyone needed them. Jenny realized she hadn’t grabbed one before stepping into the shower.

Jenny wondered whether she step out to get one but then thought about the puddle she’d leave on the floor. Her mom always made a fuss whenever anyone soaked the moss-green-and-brown striped bathroom rug. She argued with herself about wrapping a towel around for the few seconds it’d take to grab a washcloth, but decided against it. A damp towel would stick to her like a mucus-clad eel, and Jenny’s stomach already churned, although the latter could’ve been from a lack of food. 

Jenny didn’t remember the last time she’s eaten. When recalling this, the only memory that popped up was the meal she had just before the Game, a mixture of greasy, pork-filled egg rolls, which by now must surely be out of her system. It was Sunday, after all, and she thanked whatever higher power—the mere fact of Julian’s existence shook every Sunday School lesson she’s memorized and reenacted for Christmas programs—that her parents let her skip church this one time. When Joey discovered this sudden leniency on the Sunday morning tradition, he whined and threw his bowl of cereal into the sink, breaking the dish and earning him a week-long grounding.

Wrapping her lean arms to cover her exposed breasts, Jenny continued to stare at the shower wall’s tiles. A hazy memory of stripping off her sweaty blouse and undergarments as she heard the car engine start again.

Before her nightmare, Julian spoke of watching over her as she’s grown from an energetic child to a mature person with more feminine attributes and appearances. Now that Jenny knew his words were true, how many times had she ever been alone, truly alone? Her family had just left for church and she had trapped the demon in his own world, in the figment of a manmade closest no less; Jenny deduced that this was the first time she certainly knew that she was alone in just over a decade.

A cold finger slid up her spine, and Jenny shivered despite standing in lukewarm water. Is this her _first shower alone?_  

Jenny shook her head, driving the thought to burrow deeper inside her mind for later, perhaps during one of the nightmares she feared would appear in the coming weeks. No, this was not the time to think about it. Instead, Jenny reached for her own bottle of shampoo, the one that smelled like pine trees.

Julian had said her eyes were as green as conifers when she wasn’t happy. She imagined they were a deeper shade now.

Dropping a generous dollop of the pastel green goop into her palm, Jenny rubbed her hands together. Once small bubbles formed in the spaces between her fingers, Jenny reached up and started combing her hair. It reached down to the middle of her back when it was wet, and eventually her hands traveled down to its edges, her hair twisted into one lumpy lock and thrown in front of her shoulder. White peaks of shampoo gave her hair the appearance of having some volume, but it was just filling the spaces between each strand, loosening the sweat, dirt, and any trace of Julian that could be erased.

Jenny wanted the memory of his gentle touch running through her hair, brushing out the kinks of her high ponytail, the one Tom liked so much, to pile on the floor with the rest of the suds to flood down the drain. She couldn’t let herself forget Summer’s death, but she wished that she could forget that touch, forget how much she leaned into it like he was her boyfriend and not Tom.

Her stomach fluttered right into her heart, and the lightheaded feeling returned. She wanted him _gone_ , from her memory and her nerves. Jenny twisted her hair and a downpour of watered-down shampoo splashed to the floor. The green had washed down into a white as it swirled down the drain. 

Running a hand through the tangled mess, Jenny dug her fingernails into her roots and clamped her fingers together. Tight as a lice comb, she squeezed the excess water out of her hair. She did this for the remainder of her hair, always rough, until the water ran clear.

Julian had said her hair was like liquid amber, a bright honey found when looking through a honeycomb, holding it like a lens with which to gaze at the sun. Jenny looked at the individual strands that hadn’t survived the wash and now clung to her knuckles, and all she saw was a dark blonde. She glanced at the locks that had fanned out over her breasts like a mermaid’s would in a children’s show and saw the same hue. Her scalp stung from the times her long fingernails scraped against it, but the ghost of Julian’s hand still remained, brushing aside the dry locks as an excuse to stand closer to her. He used every opportunity to invade her space. 

Turning around to shut off the water, Jenny pushed aside the moss curtain—everything in the bathroom was either brown, green, or yellow, all nature tones to appease her mother—and grabbed the closest towel hanging from the rod and wrapped herself in it.

Her legs wobbled as she jerked open the bathroom door, only pausing to reaffirm her suspicion regarding her family’s absence. Leaving impressions of her feet on the wood flooring, Jenny stomped down to the kitchen and pull open the drawer nearest to the refrigerator. The clutter inside banged against one another in a shuffle, but her prize lay right on top of all the rubber bands, the hot pads, and oven mitts.

She carefully picked it up, cradling it in her grasp like one does with a grenade, before trudging back to the bathroom. Jenny held it in one hand while the other held together her towel, now sticking to the sides of her legs in a moist clutch.

The shower hadn’t been too warm and when she left the bathroom, Jenny had left the door open. Whatever steam had been collected already drifted away by the time Jenny returned to stand by the mirror.

Jenny first saw dark brown bruises under each eye, but then registered it as evidence of her long night at the station, being interrogated by the skeptical police officers, medics, and detectives. It hit her that she hadn’t slept the night of the Game either, and added another tick mark to the scoreboard of sleepless nights in a row. Two became her new record.

Then she saw the hair, the dampened, clumpy locks beginning to wave as they airdried. Little threads were curling faster than others and Jenny realized she didn’t use conditioner.

Jenny looked down at the pair of scissors in her hand and remembered Julian, the trick he played to gain permission to touch a bit of her, access that only grew to include her whole body. Jenny didn’t want to be weak in the aftermath. No, she had refused in the end despite the gifts and pleasures and dangers with which her threatened her. He father was right; Jenny was _strong._

She held up a twisted lock out at an acute angle away from her head and raised the scissors.

_Snip. Snip. Snip._

Jenny couldn’t let herself forget Summer’s death, but she could try to force the memory of Julian and every warm feeling he drew out of her into the trash with the rest of the hair he loved. As she cut away the pine-scented honey strands, she smiled; Summer had always thought Jenny could rock a pixie cut.

_Snip. Snip. Snip._

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Literally nothing changes in the universe except Jenny completes the last two games with short AF hair. 
> 
> A summary of reactions:
> 
> Dee and Audrey and Zach: Love it.  
> Michael: "Wait what? Oh, okay."  
> Tom: Thinks it's a sign that he's too tame for her like she said while lying to Julian. He's still suspicious of their relationship throughout book 2, so nothing changes really.  
> Parents: WTF did you do while we were praising Jesus what.  
> Joey: KK coolcool  
> Julian: His eyes just kinda go wide at first, but also sees it as a positive sign of her changing in a way that conflicts with Tom's values. Also, he figures he has eternity with her, so it'll grow back. 
> 
> When writing this, I had the symptoms of PTSD in mind. I don't know if it's just me being a lesbian or what, but if I ever found myself in Jenny's position, one where a man was stronger than me and wanted me at all costs, I'd be pretty fucked up for a few days. Jenny's mindset is pretty strong however, and as far as harmful interactions go, he wasn't nearly as aggressive in his approaches as some can be, so I don't see her having a full-blown case of PTSD. Just a few symptoms like nightmares and acting out in ways as to protect oneself whether physically or mentally.
> 
> In the myth, Sif's loss of hair was her weakness. In this story, Jenny's loss of hair was her way of showing that she had strength. 
> 
> *also, in case anyone's wondering, I explicitly wrote the family as active in the churchgoer lifestyle, but that's because in The Chase (I think), there's a sentence about her parents going while Jenny gets ready to hide at Michael's house.


End file.
